Hitman, Gangsters, Cannibals and Me

by Donal Macintyre

  The smell of weed alone was enough to get anyone high. The TV blared McCain and Obama in the midst of election fever. At the back of the house there was a sophisticated music studio with hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment. The music didn’t quite live up to the quality that the expensive equipment promised, however. But there was no disputing the quality of the guns on display: shiny new AK-47s, often referred to as ‘widow makers’, were the killing machines of choice.

  The motley crew of killers, drug dealers and wise guys presented their guns, wearing the obligatory balaclavas. ‘Vote Obama,’ they shouted, randomly. It wasn’t exactly the kind of endorsement the soon-to-be President was canvassing.

  And then my phone rang. In such circumstances, I would normally have the phone turned off during filming, but the health and safety issues involved in dealing with madmen and guns meant that it was wise to keep your phone about you - and switched on!

  ‘Hello, Daddy. I lost the moon in the sky, Daddy,’ said my daughter, Allegra. Well, that was a call I had to take, particularly as there was a chance that it could be the last I would ever take. Allegra told me about her wobbly tooth and said: ‘Freddie at school says that he has Hannah Montana 15, the DVD, at home. That’s a lie Daddy, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course it is, gorgeous. Can I talk to Mommy, quickly?’

  It had to be brief, because there was more urban hardware to peruse and I wanted to get the hell out of there as soon as possible. I am a coward at heart and am finely attuned to appropriate departure times when there are loaded guns about.

  ‘Hi, babes. I know you have issues with it, but me and the girls have decided you are doing Dancing on Ice,’ Ameera began.

  ‘Honey, can we talk later? I’m a bit busy now,’ I said, smiling at my gun-toting friends.

  Taking advantage of my precarious predicament, she asserted herself in no uncertain terms.

  ‘No chance. The deed is done,’ she said. ‘Don’t be angry. It’s for the best, and the kids will love it.’

  ‘But honey –’

  ‘You’ll be trained by Torvill and Dean!’

  ‘I don’t care if I am trained by a thousand virgins,’ I said, feeling like I had already lost the battle.

  I wasn’t angry – I was terrified. Terrified of the humiliation, of the skin-tight spandex on my 42" rollover waist, of the fake tan, of the public vote. Oh, and let’s not forget that I couldn’t skate and I don’t dance – ever.

  Just then, the leader of the Zoe Pound, Mac A. Zoe, phoned from Dade County Jail on a contraband mobile phone. He had been remanded in custody on suspicion of being involved in four murders.

  His henchmen were watching me, nervous that I might be talking to the Police. I said to Ameera: ‘Put baby Tiger on the phone,’ and I put the call on loudspeaker. ‘Nooo, no way ... Elmo poo,’ said my eighteen-month-old daughter, talking about our puppy sausage dog, for whom the JCB pooper-scooper was invented. She then launched into a rendition of a song from Mamma Mia. It’s the girls’ favourite movie (they suffered badly when they gave it up for Lent).

  Immediately, the nervous twitches abated.

  ‘Got to go. Love you,’ I said.

  And that is how I was surrendered to the sequins.

  Suddenly the guns in front of me held no danger. This was a world I could relate to. The whiff of cordite, the balaclavas, the drug dealers and killers – I was used to them all. Sequins, red carpets and spandex were another matter entirely.

  Later, talking to Ameera on the phone, I said: ‘At least it’ll be nice to do a show that isn’t preceded by the warning: “Some viewers may find the following scenes disturbing.”’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ she shot back.

  * * * * *

  Back in London it was time to decide who should be included in the shortlist for the 2009 series of Dancing On Ice. Every year, 50 or so celebrities are canvassed and tested for their level of interest, aptitude and enthusiasm for the slippery tasks involved. In spite of my own good sense, I found myself in that motley collection of possibles, probables and highly-unlikelies. In truth, I thought that I would be so bad that I would fail the selection process and I took some comfort from that, thinking that I might get the better of my girls after all. As it turned out, however, the downright useless were more likely to be selected than the moderately good, on the basis that bad skating makes for good television.

  I had always steadfastly avoided shows like this. From Celebrity Wife Swap to Strictly Come Dancing, I had turned them all down. As a journalist I prefer to be recognised for my work, rather than to be known for being known. I figured that there are only a few reasons for doing such shows and the most common one is that your career is in a cataclysmic downward spiral. I was pondering this as I tied up my skates for the trials and took awkwardly to the ice for the first time.

  The former world number two, Karen Barber, who still coaches and mentors Torvill and Dean, was going to assess me for the show. My trial by skates followed that of double Olympic gold medallist in sailing, Sarah Dempsey. Sarah didn’t recognise me but did her best to pretend that she did, which I thought was very polite of her. Thanks very much to the producers for putting me on after the Olympic gold medallist!

  To Barber’s credit she gave the same level of concentration to us as she did to Torvill and Dean. If I had been her I would have thrown me on the ice and let gravity do its worst.

  Karen had a chart and a clipboard to record my ineptitude. First she held me by one arm and insisted that I place my hand on the side of the rink. My feet were not moving; my muscles were frozen with fear. In two generations, no MacIntyre has broken a bone and I didn’t want to be the one to end the lucky run just as I lost my ‘celebrity virginity’.

  ‘Please let me be rejected and let me get on with my life,’ I prayed.

  So, there was Sarah Dempsey elegantly gliding across the ice, having done no more than a bit of Christmas ice-skating. The natural sports star in her shone through and she was rewarded with admiring nods from Karen. And then there was me: the fat bloke with the muffin belly spilling over the elasticated waist of his tracksuit bottoms. The running order was not designed to make me feel good.

  ‘I should have stayed away from the ice and stuck to broadcasting,’ I thought to myself. I was suddenly craving a warzone or the company of a dangerous gangster.

  In the end, Karen ranked the 50 celebrities who were brave enough to try out. I came second lowest in terms of ability (no surprise there!) and highest in terms of enthusiasm. Apparently Todd Carty and I were the poorest skaters they had ever come across, and Karen had clearly misinterpreted my terror as eagerness. She did note in her report that I had the potential to be reckless, and, in her words, I was ‘not risk adverse’. Like a misbehaving puppy I was out of control, snappy and not housetrained, but with discipline and training, some progress might be possible.

  * * * * *

  Sunday, 28 September 2008

  As an undercover investigative journalist, my office has typically been the mean streets, and my wife has long complained that I have never been able to take our two daughters to work to show them what I do. But taking part in Dancing On Ice, in which 13 celebrities partner professional skaters, try to learn how to figure-skate and compete against each other, is my opportunity to finally impress them. So far the full extent of my skating experience has been a session at a rink in Richmond one Christmas more than 20 years ago. Nothing like a challenge!

  Thursday, 20 November 2008

  Today I met my professional partner for the show, the brilliant French international skater, Florentine Houdiniere. I proudly told her that I’m slowly getting to grips with the basics, apart from going forwards. ‘Hmm,’ she musesd. ‘In many respects going forwards is quite important.’ Florentine is a wonderful mix of Parisian flair and Foreign Legion discipline, with a heavy French accent on the discipline and a little domination thrown in for good measure. Some celebrities pay good money for that kind of cocktail, b
ut it never attracted me until today, when Flo became my no-nonsense trainer, determined that I wouldn’t make a loser out of her with my inability to skate forwards.

  Thursday, 27 November 2008

  Christopher Dean and Jayne Torvill, who choreograph the show, are the only pair ever to be awarded a perfect score in a free programme, which they received for their ‘Bolero’ routine at the 1984 Winter Olympics. My wife has a long-standing crush on Chris, and even blushes when he comes on TV, so when I introduced her to him in person she did nothing but stare and giggle. Chris, presumably used to swooning maidens with fluttering eyelashes, was the perfect gentleman. He confirmed his reputation as having both a profound understanding of his sport and also a mastery of understatement when he pointed out that I am ‘not a natural skater’.

  Wednesday, 10 December 2008

  Met the other celebrities at an ice rink in London’s Lea Valley today. I instantly hit it off with former Grange Hill and Eastenders star, Todd Carty. I quickly discovered that he is to figure skating what Mike Tyson is to embroidery. I also bonded with ex-England footballer, Graeme Le Saux, who was paying close attention to my skating technique. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying,’ he offered, ‘but you look as if you’re recovering from a serious car accident.’ He softened the blow by adding that he looked as if he had been my passenger.

  The women are far more impressive on the ice. Zoe Salmon, the former Blue Peter presenter, is enthusiastic and very good, and so is the graceful Jessica Taylor, who used to be in the pop band, Liberty X.

  Meanwhile, presenter Coleen Nolan is witty and funny and threatens to monopolise the John Sergeant vote, though we all think Todd will run her close.

  Before we left, Todd came over to me and pointed out my ample lovehandles. ‘They’re not lovehandles,’ I said. ‘They’re airbags, and I’ll need them.’

  Sunday, 11 January 2009

  My first performance in front of the judges on live TV! This week, just the seven male contestants were competing. I skated resplendent in a sky-blue silk shirt with glitter down the front: positively macho compared to the pink wraparound effort worn by actor Jeremy Edwards.

  Florentine and I performed to Nickelback’s ‘Rockstar’. I managed to pull off what I think was a fairly impressive lift. I’m filled with admiration for Florentine, and indeed all the female professionals. These women rely on their fantastic looks and physical wellbeing to make a living – and now they are being thrown around by idiots like me.

  Unfortunately, my lift didn’t impress the show’s five judges. We scored a total of 13.5 out of a possible 30, although Jason Gardiner, the judge with a splinter of ice where his heart should be, said I was not as bad as he was expecting. I’m told it may be the nicest thing he has ever said to anyone, which cheered me up.

  When the judges’ scores were combined with the audience votes, Graeme Le Saux and I were the bottom two and had to take part in a skate-off. Last time I was this nervous, a Liverpool crack addict was pointing a gun at me. My head dropped momentarily and Florentine urged me to ‘snap out of it’. This was the moment when my ‘Flist’ celebrity embarrassment gave way to my competitive drive. ‘Jesus, don’t let me go out in the first round. I swear I’ll go to mass and give up drink – just get me through to week two,’ I thought.

  I gave it my very best effort in the skate-off, which looked hysterically inept, but clearly the judges saw something at the outer edges of my ability, as they elected to keep me in and boot out Graeme. I suspect I got the marks for effort rather than style. I was sorry to see him go, but rather him than me. I started to feel a little more confident about the whole thing, until my twin brother took the wind out of my sails by telling me I had looked like an elephant dancing.

  Monday, 12 January 2009

  Not only was I not the most popular contestant with the audience, I wasn’t even the most popular in my own household. Ameera tells me she was backing Graeme, and the two girls were supporting Roxanne Pallett from Emmerdale. I’m working hard to chase their votes. I’ll be checking the phone bill to see who they’ve voted for.

  Wednesday, 14 January 2009

  At the practice session today I asked Andrei Lipanov, the Russian professional who partners actress Gemma Bissix, to lift me up so I can get a sense of what it’s like for the women. Lipanov, who is built like a T-34 tank, raised me above his head and spun me round like a helicopter blade. It felt like being trapped in an out-of-control washing machine and left me terrified, nauseous and unable to stand up. That was quite enough of getting in touch with my feminine side for one day.

  Monday, 19 January 2009

  Each day I spend about two hours on the ice with Florentine and then I try to do an extra hour by myself. I have lost almost three stone since I started training. The worse you are at skating, the more weight you lose because your movement on the ice is so inefficient. I must be pretty bad!

  Unfortunately, this is something of a disincentive to improve. All the MacIntyre boys are what we like to call ‘big-boned’. No MacIntyre has been under 15 st for about 15 years. Now I’m hovering just over the 12 st mark. ‘Are you sure you’ve not got worms, Donal?’ my Mum asked. My previous weight-loss programmes have usually depended on food poisoning. Now I’ve become one of those annoying people who can eat whatever they want and not pile on weight. Today I’ve already had two chocolate bars and a generous fried breakfast. When I get kicked out of the show, I figure I’ll have a beach body for a couple of months. So before I start tucking into the beer and pizza again, I’m going to commission a set of photographs on the beach. Sadly, I have no fitness DVD to promote. What a waste!

  Tuesday, 20 January 2009

  I have received, via ITV1 and my agent, nearly 50 affectionate fan letters from Her Majesty’s prisons. They are exclusively from male prisoners, some of them in highsecurity installations. Many are addressed to ‘The Iceman’ or ‘King of the Ice’. Some of the most dangerous men in the country have surrendered to the sequins, it seems. A prison warden told me that he couldn’t remember a family-orientated show ever attracting such a following in the wings of a high-security prison. Go figure.

  ‘I’m delivering a whole new audience for this show,’ I boast to Ameera.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with the gorgeous, super-fit girls in the skimpy costumes, then?’ she says.

  Wednesday, 21 January 2009

  I’ve been working on my killer move, the Hydroblade, which involves crouching low and skating backwards with one leg extended. In the metrosexual world of ice dancing, this is the nearest you get to masculinity. It requires a kind of rugby strength in the legs and thighs, and lots of flexibility.

  I’m told it’s a move even some professionals can’t pull off, but, thanks to some freak accident of genetics, I can do it. The show’s organisers and the pros are mystified, as am I. It’s a filthy, trophy-hunting trick that I am hoping will raise a cheap cheer.

  Florentine remarked the other day that I might benefit from ballet lessons. As my daughters go to ballet every Wednesday, I tagged along with them to the Fairy Footsteps For Tiny Tots And Kids class and even wore a pink tutu at the request of the girls, though I declined the fairy wand that Tiger offered me. On second thoughts, a magic wand maybe just what I need!

  Thursday, 22 January 2009

  Note to self: A couple of glasses of white wine before skating is not a great idea. I was feeling stressed and decided to have a couple of liveners before going for an extra practice session. I spent much of it falling on my backside. At least it didn’t hurt as much as usual.

  Sunday, 25 January 2009

  It’s my forty-third birthday and they had me in navy-blue this week. Florentine and I skated to the Otis Redding classic, ‘Dock Of The Bay’. I love the song but I don’t like skating to it. Of course we told everyone that we loved it and smiled our brightest smiles. Our pièce de résistance was to be our entry onto the ice from the judges’ table. I slid down one side beside Karen Barber and was supposed to slide across
the table and chill my way to Flo. I was trying to be cool, but it was clunky, ugly and embarrassingly amusing. It was like watching a teenager take their first puff on a cigarette.

  Each week there is a required element in the routine and this time it is toe steps, which I mess up royally. However, I did pull off two big lifts, including the Reverse Pencil, in which Florentine was upside down, and, of course, the Hydroblade.

  We got a total score of 15 from the judges: an improvement of sorts, but still second last, which actually means last, if you discount Todd – which, if you’d seen him, you would.

  Tonight, during his routine, Todd careered off the rink and out of camera shot, arms flailing, legs akimbo. When it happened, Sharon the physio bolted towards him, but he was caught by a couple of burly assistants and shunted back onto the rink.

  I now call him Vera. Just as Vera Lynn helped keep up morale during World War II, so Todd is helping to keep people smiling during the recession.

  Despite our low standing in the table, Florentine and I were voted through by the audience. The country’s generosity knows no bounds. My mum tells me people in Ireland are getting their friends in the UK to vote for me because they are not allowed to vote themselves. If the Irish could vote, I could sit back and pick up the trophy later. We do like to support one of our own.

  Monday, 26 January 2009

  One of the lifts we did last night was the Swan Stand (we make the names up ourselves!), in which Florentine faces me, I go into a crouch, she rests a foot in my lap and then stands up like a swan, so to speak. I have found that having nine inches of cold, sharp steel in one’s lap while skating at high speed does nothing for one’s peace of mind, no matter how well one gets on with one’s partner. Indeed, I’ve been coming home with cuts and bruises that are perilously close for comfort. To avoid any further potential damage, I’ve started wearing a cricket box.

  Sunday, 1 February 2009

  Tonight I was in a glittering pinstriped suit and a tie. My suit was so sparkly with its £3,000 worth of sequins that there were complaints from ITV transmission that it was interfering with the quality of the picture. It might have started all sparkly but I did my best to dull things down with my performance.